


Hic Monstrum

by justbygrace



Series: Movie 'Verse [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, some violence, thematic elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: "He used to be someone once."A crossover (rewrite?) with 'The Incredible Hulk'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Latin for This Monster  
> Warnings for thematic elements consistent with the movie.  
> Much creative license occurred here.

He used to be someone once. He was John Smith, a Doctor with more letters behind his name and plaques to hang on his wall than he knew what to do with, and he was a Scientist who could scoff at the Hierarchy Problem. He hobnobbed with the Who's-Who of the Year, was invited to guest lecture to people who were themselves respected in their field, and had a woman for every event. He is not someone anymore.

It all changed because he was asked to consult on a top secret project. He was flattered to be involved, if - when - it worked it would be revolutionary, changing the face of modern medicine forever. At first he was there purely for his opinion, to nod and hum and put in the right word at the right time, but he couldn't resist taking a more hands-on approach and eventually he was the head of the laboratory. 

John soon began to devote all of his time to the project, spending hours making sure each and every component was in place, each stage was properly working, before moving on to the next. His meals were forgotten, his social calendar dwindled to nothing, and nearly everyone thought he'd turned into a mad scientist. He was okay with that, certain that once he completed the project (and he knew he could, he was, after all, a genius), his success would skyrocket: they'd probably name museums, hospitals, and universities after him. 

The mad scientist rumors weren't altogether untrue. John's temper fluctuated with the success of the project and he could hardly keep an assistant around for longer than a few months (the shortest was a week, but that was a special circumstance that wasn't entirely his fault). In fact, there was only one person who had stuck with him since he was named Lead Scientist. She had been a lowly intern back then, there on a scholarship, planning to put in her hours and get on with her life, but it hadn't happened. She withstood his tempers, always had the right piece of equipment or concoction he needed, and reminded him to eat. He never admitted it out loud (hardly even let it cross his mind), but ten months into the project and he couldn't function without her. If he had been a different sort of man, or if he didn't have a very important project to work on, he would have bed her (and probably wed her also) ages ago.

Exactly a year after the project had begun, John was certain that it was ready for human testing. The board disagreed; they wanted more tests, more data to pass up the food chain. He left the meeting angry and frustrated, muttering about exactly where they could shove their food chain. It was late, the meetings had dragged out for hours, and he headed back the lab; there was no time like the present to start on those tests. 

Rose was there (that was his assistant's name: Rose Tyler) of course, there and waiting with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits and a small smile. She let him rage and growl, storming about the lab and knocking over expensive equipment, before patting his arm and pulling him back to his work station and encouraging him to get on with it. He did, for all of five minutes, and then it dawned on him: just because they told him he couldn't test it on volunteers didn't actually mean he couldn't test it. He could volunteer and there was not a damn thing the bureaucrats and their food chain could do about it.

It was simple. A self-injection in a contained area, Rose would monitor and record the data, and then he could prove that his product was ready for commercial use. She seemed a bit reticent, asking him multiple questions before agreeing (with several disclaimers which he ignored). He shut himself in the containment room, rolled up his right sleeve, and with a confident smile in the direction of Rose's concerned face in the window, injected the serum into his brachial artery. 

At first everything was fine, a bit of tightening in his muscles, some spasms in his calves, but a general feeling of health and well-being. He was just turning to give Rose a thumbs up when his body felt like it was being shoved in a compressor, everything thinning down, the walls closing in, tighter, tighter, closer, closer, and then suddenly his body was expanding out and out and out until he was certain he would explode. Lights started flashing neon colors, on and off, over and over again. He thought he dropped to his knees, but he couldn't be certain because his skin was stretching, muscles were popping, bones were cracking, and there was a continual white noise in his ears. He opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn't because the world was in the process of detonating and there was nothing he could do but hold on for dear life.

John came to nine hundred kilometers away, naked and alone under an overpass. It took him ten minutes to remember how to walk and thirty to remember his name. By the time he had located a pair of trousers he knew something had gone horribly wrong with the experiment. He could feel it, screaming through his veins, a staccato beat that screamed to escape. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that it was there, lying in wait and ready to devour him alive. 

The first order of business was to return to the lab, to figure out what had happened and move on to plan B. Or that was what he was planning up until he walked into the train terminal in time to catch sight of the replay of an explosion. He stepped closer to the monitors, watching along with a dozen other concerned commuters as his lab was blown sky high. As he watched, the screens began to flash pictures, Rose's face among them. The reporters were speaking, but it took him long moments to process words, to decipher meaning, and then it was only in bits and pieces: intensive care, multiple injuries, cause unknown. He was running before he gave his body permission to move.

When he could force his brain to kick back in he found a cashpoint and withdrew what he could; whatever was in him that had caused that much devastation, he was determined to take it far, far away. He bought himself a one-way ticket to Cape Town, the farthest away he could think to go before he'd be on his way back. As an afterthought he purchased a shirt and shoes and a packet of biscuits, but he threw the food away as soon as he realized he'd bought Rose's favorite flavor. 

The hours became days which blended into weeks that morphed into months. He had worked out enough to determine that the gamma radiation in the injection had reacted with his body's natural chemicals, morphing and bonding and creating something new, a creature that lived in the very marrow of his bones, continually shouting to be released. If he wasn't careful, didn't work to maintain a steady blood pressure and heart rate, it would come crashing out of him, laying waste to everything around it. That part he knew from experience - graphic, hands-on, flying rubble and giant crater experience.

His home was a tiny one room thing in the worst section of the city, his job was the fifth one in just the last ten months, and his mood swings were...manageable. Life was continuing to happen to him, though certainly not from a lack of effort on his part; the monster within him simply would not allow the swift mercy of a bullet or a noose or poison. He was attending classes on zen, on breathing, on yoga, on meditation, but absolutely none of it made the urge to end it all any less.

John spent hours on the internet - on his own crap laptop that he'd reconfigured himself and at tiny Internet cafes that didn't care what he did - researching every symptom that he had, every instance of radiation poisoning, every hint that whatever was wrong with him was curable. So far he'd come up mostly empty. He had, however, run across someone with the code name Bad Wolf, who was miraculously researching gamma radiation and its effects on humans. They'd conversed via random chat rooms and encrypted websites, careful not to use key words and to never use the same communication method twice. Sometimes it seemed they were onto something, some miracle cure developed in the jungles of South America, but mostly they just hit dead ends. He never admitted he maintained the conversations because he was lonely.

He knew that he was on a wanted list - probably all of them, and he also knew that the moment they got their hands on him they would dissect him, not to mention throwing him in jail for the death of Rose Tyler, and it simply gave him one more reason to keep his head down. And he would have been able to continue to do so, if it weren't for a young blonde who he caught sight of being harassed on a street corner on his way home from work one night. He almost walked away, not his problem, he had more important things to worry about, but he couldn't quite drag his feet away.

The thugs threw the first punch, catching him square in the jaw, but that was enough to bring it out, raging and punching and leaving mere shreds of the ruffians behind. It almost killed the girl too, but he wouldn't let it, forcing himself up through the fog to command it away. And away they - him and his inner demon - went, leaving the crowded streets behind to wait out the transition in a quiet grove outside the city. 

Government officials were on his tail the next day. John hadn't expected anything less, but the race through the streets, hiding in terrified stranger's front rooms, and ducking behind overflowing dumpsters, reminded him of everything he'd been trying to forget: there was blood on his hands. The urge to jump, to leap right into the arms of his pursuers was an insistent pressure in the base of his skull, but he resisted, not now, not yet. If and when they caught up with him, it would be on his terms, on his time, not because some overpaid army brats wanted a medal.

Outmaneuvering them was laughably easy, he hadn't spent five years running the city for fun, and they were very far away from home. By the time he slipped through the doors of an Internet cafe that fronted for the drug cartels and didn't look kindly on law enforcement, he knew the soldiers were reconvening somewhere on the far side of the city. He logged on and immediately tracked down Bad Wolf; he (she?) was a genius at leaving messages to lead him through the Internet. 

Their first message robbed him of breath. Bad Wolf was certain they'd tracked down someone who knew a way to reverse the process, and was offering to meet. He stared unseeingly at the screen, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. The very idea of returning to London was scary, but the glimmer of hope was paralyzing. Forcing his fingers to unclench, he took deep breaths in through his mouth and out through his nose, slowing his heart rate to a normal resting position. He could do this, of course he could. He would do this.

He nearly lost his composure eight separate times during the plane ride back to London. Everything from the noisy crowds to the squawk of machinery to the idea that he might be in his final days of dealing with his inner monster wore away at him until he finally stumbled out of the airport in London. He chose to walk the streets, the dark night serving as a balm to his frayed nerves, and the familiar sights and sounds guiding his footsteps. Purposefully, he cleared his mind, determined not to dwell on the past, the present, or the future. 

John's steps carried him to an old friend - Wilf Noble, a kindly gentleman who had offered him his first job sweeping up his shop during his chaotic teen years. Wilf hugged him, gave him tea, and didn't ask too many questions. John slept straight through the night for the first time since he could remember. He spent the next day wandering the streets in concentric circles around his old lab. 

He finally gained the courage to turn the final corner before the lab, and his jaw dropped open when he saw that it had been rebuilt to almost the same dimensions. He was still trying to comprehend it when his eyes fell on the figure crossing the street up ahead, long coat flapping out behind her, blonde hair tickling her shoulders. His heart stumbled to a halt and then kicked back in, accelerating to dangerous levels as he took in the sight of Rose Tyler, alive and well and beautiful. 

Nothing had prepared him for this. Not once had it crossed his mind that she had survived his rampage that night or that she might still be in this business. His mind, a fickle companion these days, was having trouble computing the images of her, and by the time he realized he was frozen on a street corner mere meters away from her, it was too late; he'd stayed too long. She paused in mid-step, tilted her head to one side as if listening to a siren call, and spun around, eyes already scanning the area.

Since John hadn't considered that she wasn't dead, he certainly hadn't figured that she would take one look and start running towards him. He wanted to move, wanted to meet her halfway, but his heart was already speeding towards dangerous levels and he couldn't risk it, couldn't do more than stand and stare at her. Even when she was in his space she didn't slow, leaping at the last minute to throw her arms around his neck, pressing her body as close to his as she could get. His arms came around her purely by reflex, holding her to him, reveling in the sound of her heartbeat, her fingers digging into his back, her breath whooshing against his neck, her hair in his mouth, her voice repeating his name over and over. 

Eventually he released her, slowly lowering her until her feet rested on solid ground, though he couldn't quite convince his fingers to lose their grip on her shoulders and her hands stayed wrapped around his forearms. Neither of them seemed to know what to say at first and then she started talking while he muttered her name and apologies and other nonsense he wasn't certain made any sense. He was only half-listening to her, too busy studying the planes of her face, cataloging each distinct feature to remind himself that they were still there, that she was really alive and breathing and staring at him like she'd said something he ought to have heard. 

There was an unfamiliar pull to his cheeks and it took him several long seconds to realize his lips were twisting into a smile. He stared down at her, amazed that in five minutes she had made him do what he had not been able to do in five years. She grinned back at him for a moment, but then started speaking again. This time he tried to pay better attention, catching words like “experiments” and “searching everywhere” and “radiation.” He stumbled back a step, mind whirling as he suddenly realized what she was saying.

It was only her grip on his arms that kept him from tripping over backwards — that, and the awareness that his heart rate was climbing to perilous highs. He could feel her thumb moving in small circles on his wrist and he forced himself to stop, grinding his rushing emotions and thoughts to a halt as he focused his entire being on that tiny point of contact. When he could breathe again, he studied her face, wanting the answers without having to ask. She smiled, slipped her hand into his, and tugged him up the street.

As they walked, Rose talked, telling him about recovery periods and security cameras and government clearances and experiments and hours of internet research. She had picked the name Bad Wolf from her favorite fairytale as a child and used it to track him down. It had been months before she realized that it was actually him, picking up on his choice of words and idiosyncratic typing style, but even then she could do nothing to reveal her identity, not willing to tip off his location to any government surveillance.

She explained that she had met a friend, Jack Harkness - a former Captain - who had offered his assistance (the burning through his veins when he heard that surprised him enough to make him trip over his feet, and he brushed off her concerns with a wave of his hand, determined to figure that out later). Jack had won her confidence over time and had helped her to track down elusive ingredients. 

Rose paused, tightening her grip on his hand, and then asking did he want to meet Jack? John wanted to throttle Jack and so he took his time to calm down before saying that yes, but not today. There was no mistaking the happiness in her eyes when they set off again, this time headed for a chippy she swore by. Somehow their hands were still tangled together and neither of them showed signs of wanting to let go. They spent the evening eating and chatting until late, the time flying by as they discussed the years apart. He knew he was awkward, enforced solitude making him poor company, but she held his hand and gave him her full attention, and he wondered how he had survived five years without her. 

He was all set to go back to Wilf's for the night, but when she asked him if he maybe wanted to spend the night at her place he wasn't about to say no. It was simple and functional and every surface screamed Rose Tyler, and he could hardly stay standing beneath the onslaught of feelings that flooded him. She set him up on the couch with a blanket and an old shirt she said belonged to her best friend (he had a moment of jealousy, but her next breath mentioned her friend's girlfriend and he could breathe again). As she was leaving the room he caught her hand, whispering that he was sorry, so very sorry. She smiled gently, tenderly, and kissed his cheek before disappearing into the hall.

They set off to meet Jack after a late breakfast. John wanted to run and worse, it wanted to run, and the only thing that kept him there was her hand in his. Jack was a brash American who John was all set to dislike but couldn't; the man's sense of humor, obvious ingenuity, and high regard for Rose earned him at least some respect. John was unsure about the procedure, Rose was nervous, and Jack was confident, explaining that he had done multiple animal testings and it was ready to be used. John and Rose exchanged looks - this was sounding all too familiar, but John was out of options and so he laid down and allowed Jack to put restraints around his wrists and ankles and head, ignoring the man's suggestive comments.

Rose held his hand until she couldn't, until the syringe went into his vein and he could feel the monster emerging. The familiar pulsing of his muscles began, pushing and pulling, twisting and stretching as they made way. His eyes dimmed, his last clear vision of Rose's concerned face being pulled away by Jack, and his mind was shoved to the side. And then he felt it, underneath it all there was a rushing sound, growing, growing, growing, sweeping through his body and doing battle against the monster. Using the last vestiges of his brain - his human brain - he worked to offer his support, willing the monster back into his cage. The monster screamed, sending spikes of pain radiating outwards, and yielded.

John woke up still lying on Jack's operating table, his head cradled in Rose's lap as she smoothed the hair back from his brow. He closed his eyes from her gaze, afraid of the judgment he would see there, but she stroked his cheek, leaning down to whisper encouragement into his ear. Every fiber of his being wanted to believe her, but he had seen too much, done too much, had too much blood on his hands to be able to rest in her promises. After all, he could still feel the monster growling beneath his ribcage

Jack appeared at John's side, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Yes, he said, the experiment had been a partial failure, but it had also been a partial success; John had been able to come out of it quickly and without causing damage to anyone or anything. Jack was certain that the new agent that had been introduced to his system would help him be able to win the next fight, and was all set for Trial Number Two, but Rose would hear nothing about it, insistent that she take John home so that he could rest.

That was what they would have done, too, if shots hadn't started ringing out around them. John threw himself off the table, pulling Rose down with him, shielding her with his body as he tried to determine which direction the assault was coming from. He yelled at Jack to come on, taking off in an easterly direction, keeping a firm grip on Rose's hand. He could feel the monster throwing himself against the bars of its cage, demanding to be let out, but he focused on the chase, on dodging equipment, and taking corners at top speed.

They were almost out when Rose let out a sharp cry and John spun to see her holding her shoulder, a grimace of pain creasing her face. Before he could second guess himself he leaned forward and kissed her, lingering for a brief second against the softness of her lips. Pulling back, he opened his mouth and roared, blasting open the cage and inviting the monster out to the light of day. 

He tore through the halls of the lab, impervious to the flying bullets, headed straight for whoever dared to lay a hand on Rose. He was angry and he drove the monster hard, laying waste to the building with barely restrained glee. His rage grew as he moved through the ranks of soldiers, careless of the carnage he was creating. His entire focus was narrowed to a single point: destroy. His human mind slipped further away as he gave the monster free reign to do as it pleased. And it was very pleased.

All sense of time and self dissolved as he rampaged, until suddenly it stopped, drawn up short. Confusion blasted through him, shaking his brain enough to take an interest, to come out and see what had restrained the monster. There was a figure standing in front of him, golden and glowing, a beacon of light that would not allow him to pass. He raised a massive hand, the instinct to smash whoever dared stand in his way warring with the absolute certainty that this was someone to protect. With a shout of frustration at his inability to understand, he turned away and fled.

John regained consciousness slowly and then all at once, the returning memories painful in their onslaught. The routine was familiar and he gritted his teeth and allowed it to happen. It wasn't until he regained enough cognitive function to recognize that he was in a cave that he realized there was a hand in his. He opened his eyes slowly, knowing that rushing his brain's recognition of images would not end well; the hands felt achingly familiar, but he had to know for certain. 

Turning his head, he stared in disbelief at Rose Tyler. She was sitting beside him with a slight smile, the only thing betraying her concern a slight line between her eyebrows. He opened his mouth to speak, but his mouth was dry and his vocal cords betrayed him. In a blur of motion she shifted until his arm was around her and she was half in his lap, both arms wrapped around his middle and her face buried in the crook of his neck. He wasn't sure if she was crying or laughing, and so he pulled her close and rested his cheek on her head and simply breathed.

A long time ago he used to be someone rich and famous and connected. He's not that anymore. Now he is on the run, never able to truly settle down, to keep from glancing over his shoulder every few moments. He runs from the past, tries not to think about the future, and focuses only on the present. Sometimes he loses control and his rage is heard far and wide, occasionally he locks himself in a room and screams out his misery, usually he has trouble sleeping at night, continually haunted by ghosts and demons and monsters. But he doesn't do it alone.


End file.
